This first day of the year—of the decade!—I’m sure I’m not the only one looking forward to the future, to the person I might be the next time the ball drops. I’m a fair-weather resolution maker, generally—sure, I would like to lose ten pounds, become a better public speaker, find my Darcy/Wentworth/Knightley, and learn to like olives, like a normal person, but let’s be honest. I’ve met myself, and somehow a resolution towards disappointment seems counterproductive. On the other hand, wouldn’t it great to be more awesome in the future than I am now? Such a conflict!
And so, as is so often the case, I’ve got to ask: WWJD?
I’m unsure about Jane’s hypothetical stance on hypothetical New Year’s resolutions. (To be fair, I’m also unsure about the Regency take on January 1, generally. Oh, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?) On one hand, I imagine that Jane was very much in the business of self-improvement, where possible and desirable: both her personal correspondence and the pattern of change in her heroines lead me to believe that personal growth is not against Jane’s credo. Whether learning to be wrong, learning to butt out of other people’s business, or discovering that being the dramatic heroine isn’t always a thrill, the Austen canon points directly towards a healthy respect for Life Lessons, capital L.
On the other hand, I suspect there are a few vices that Jane would have been loathe to part with: what if she had self-improved biting wit right out of her repertoire? What if, heaven forbid, she had resolved to like everybody she met? Is Jane Jane without the bits of herself that make her just slightly less than perfectly nice? Are any of us?
With all this in mind, perhaps January isn’t the time to make sweeping proclamations. Maybe cold-turkey isn’t the way to go. Maybe, as I suspect Jane might say, we change with time and experience, and not by sheer force of will and with the turn of a calendar page—maybe Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t learn to give second chances until she meets Mr. Darcy, and maybe Emma Woodhouse doesn’t learn to mind her own business until she’s caused some havoc around the neighborhood, and maybe Marianne Dashwood doesn’t learn to love a little normalcy until she’s crossed the path of one Mr. Willoughby. Maybe life takes care of our New Year’s resolutions for us, and not only once a year.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself—my reluctantly out-working, spotlight-avoiding, single, olive-hating self.
Thanks, Jane.
Happy New Year, friends.
austenacious 